


Perfect Just The Way You Are

by Taphe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Mycroft, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taphe/pseuds/Taphe
Summary: This was always something Sherlock struggled with... To be integrated into society just like everybody else without so much as a hiccup. It sounded so easy... But it really wasn't... Not for Sherlock. Despite all of his brother's demands about his so called, "Drug Addiction", and all of the help he has been offered, nothing seemed to work. Nothing ever worked when he was sober. Sherlock thought he'd never find a person that would even give a damn about a person like him... That's what he thought until he met John.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 17





	Perfect Just The Way You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey! As you can tell, I'm brand new to this wonderful site. I have a long roster of fics that I would like to share with everyone, but about 90% of them are still a WIP. This is the only story that is actually ready to be posted. With that being said, I give you guys the first chapter of this AU! Happy reading!~

Warm sunbeams cut through the transparent shades as a woman strode from the door to an armchair positioned to face a man with messy locks of hair and piercing blue eyes. He was currently wrapped up tightly in the hospital sheets, giving the young woman an irritated glance. She let out a quiet breath as her eyes scanned over the top of the clipboard, she was given by the desk receptionist. She frowned and placed the plastic board onto the coffee table off to the side and sat down in front of the man. Molly Hooper was usually assigned to the Yard as a forensic scientist, but on days like today, she was a therapist.

"Tell me, have you ever thought about writing down your feelings onto paper like I asked you to?"

"I find that feelings are irrelevant when it comes to everyday occurrences such as writing."

"Sherlock, the doctors say that you are no longer allowed to keep any type of recreational drugs due to your previous overdoses. This is the fifth time that you've been directed to me for your drug addiction." She informed.

"I'm not an addict! I'm a user...!" Sherlock proclaimed, sounding appalled by this accusation. Hooper was used to this response; he’s said it about a dozen times to her and his brother.

She paused, clicking the top of her pen slowly as she read today's cause of her patient's overdose. "You're here for... The misuse.... Of these anesthetics and-"

"It's for a case. If you don't believe me, call Lestrade." The raven-haired man snapped. Molly could tell that his patience was starting to off. She hated poking Sherlock with this invisible stick; trying to find out the why, but in this case, she just needed to know if he was okay. 

Molly scribbled a few things onto the file and got up, looking Sherlock up and down to observe his current state of attire: He's wearing tattered pants, a worn-down, plain white t-shirt with old, worn out slip-on slippers. Holmes was covered in dirt from head to toe, which suggest that Holmes was either squatting at a drug den of some sorts, or he was kicked out of his flat. 

Sherlock shot a furious glare at Molly, feeling the discomfort start to rise as she stared longer, trying to determine why he was even dressed like this when he was supposed to be working. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his lanky arms around his legs, pulling his knees up close to his collar bone, wrapping the hospital sheets tighter around him as he tried to hide away from the woman's piercing stare.

"... Most of these incidents are.... For a case?" She asked, looking at the paperwork that Sherlock filled out.

"Of course, what else would I be doing in a drug den for?" He muttered, poking his head out from the sheets cautiously.

"You do know that people tend to turn to drugs for comfort in times like these." She said with a soft tone. A scoff sounded from the raven-haired male as he cocked his head back as if he were offended.

"And how is that supposed to be applied to me?" He asked in a defensive tone.

"Sheryl... Many th-"

" ** _STOP!!!_** " The dirtied man screamed, clutching the side of head angrily while tangling his long digits into his greasy locks. He hated that nickname... He fucking hated that nickname. He never, ever wanted to let anyone use that dreaded nickname. "You do **_NOT_** have permission to call me that! **_EVER!!_** " He screamed, letting his temper flare up. Molly just gave Sherlock a frightened look and clutched her clipboard tightly. She took a shaky breath of cool air and walked out of the room in a brisk pace, leaving the estranged man to his own devices.

Another night in this institution has gone by. _Another night_ has passed since the therapy session, and Sherlock still could not believe that Mycroft was even paying for these half-assed therapy sessions. He honestly **_hated_** talking to other people about these issues that plagued his mind, especially when they seem to stop caring. Sherlock knew Molly personally, but not to the point where they could come together as friends. He wanted to apologize for the way he spoke to her three days ago, but he just could not see through the haze correctly, nor did he have the time to recuperate his thoughts to do so.

Sherlock Holmes was what society called a "loner", but that was okay in Sherlock's mind. He didn't need to rely on everybody for human interaction; he had his land lady, Mrs. Hudson, to keep him some company when he had sudden crashes. However, he can't say the same for Mycroft. Sherlock only sees his brother as an itch he cannot get rid of. His older brother was always pulling him out of putrid conditions and forcing him to go down to the hospital so that he could be observed for possible signs of drug overdoses. Sherlock never fully tried to comprehend why Mycroft would even go so far to blow his cover, but it never really mattered to him in the first place. All he saw was his brother ruining his work and nothing more.

Sherlock sniffed softly as he picked up the fresh pair of clothes, smiling softly at the hint of lemon in the clothes. He made a note to thank the nurses that left him a fresh pair of clothes, starting to briskly change out of the rags that he was wearing for the past few days. He could finally leave and go back to his flat to continue the case he was previously working on shortly before Mycroft’s men picked him up. He threw his disgusting clothes into the trash can and walked out of the patients’ room. Sherlock turned sharply on his heels and strode out through the door in a confident stride, walking straight past the receptionist desk. For a slight second, he could’ve sworn he heard something, but he brushed it off and continued down the steps with a shit eating grin. Not even halfway down the sidewalk, Sherlock’s gaze catches the sight of a cab pulling off to the edge of the sidewalk, unlocking it’s rear door and lowering its window.

“Cabby for a… Sherlock Holmes?” The cabby asked, looking at the raven-haired male with a curious gaze. ‘ _Ugh… That damn look…_ ’

“That’s me.” He said in a monotone voice, opening the door to plop down into the leather seat of the cab. A couple of minutes passed as the cabbie was driving him down the streets of London, nothing but silence was being held between the two. Sherlock huffed and looked over the shoulder of the cabbie with a bored expression, looking for signs of a familiar environment.

“Did my brother send you?” He asked dully.

“Yes Mr. Holmes.” The cabbie replied, trying to keep calm as the proximity of the other male was beginning to unnerve him. Just like Sherlock wanted.

The raven-haired male hummed softly as he caught sight of the ‘Baker Street’ sign, and pulled away from the cabbie’s shoulder, allowing the man to breath freely. As the man pulled over to the side, he turned around to request payment for his services, but stopped midway to finally realize that Sherlock was already gone and nowhere in sight.

Sherlock walked up the concrete stairwell, making his way to the door of the complex and taking out the set of keys his land lady provided for him. He cursed as his shaky hands caused him to drop his keys, causing him to lean down to pick them up from the cold, concrete landing. He finally picked his keys up from the landing, turning to face the door and attempt to unlock it again. Just as he lined up the key, he stopped and looked up from the door as his ears picked up the sounds of a walking cane tapping across the sidewalks across the street. Sherlock looked away from his door and looked over across the street to find where the source of the sound was coming from. His eyes finally locked onto a man who was slowly making his way down the street. He was a bit surprised to find somebody walking around at this time of the day, where the lights inside of the shops were just beginning to shut off and close completely, allowing the darkness to wash over the whole street. At first, Sherlock thought the man just looked funny with his furrowed brow and long nose, just walking around like an old man, but that quickly grew old as he saw that the man was struggling to get home. He wanted to call a cab or something for the man, or at least help him. As soon as started going down the staircase again, the short man left around the corner and disappeared into a cab, leaving without a single acknowledgement of Sherlock's existence.

A small frown found itself resting on Sherlock’s face as he just stared at the corner the man disappeared from. He shook his head softly and started going back up the stairs, finally unlocking the door and stepping into the makeshift lobby. Sherlock closed the door behind him and locked the top lock, making his way up the staircase to his crowded flat with light footsteps treading up the wooden staircase.

"Sherlock, is that you?" A voice chirped up from the base of the staircase.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, it’s me." He replied kindly, looking over to see a short elderly woman.

"Oh goodness, you look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out of the bowels of the city. Are you okay?" The older woman she asked with a hint of compassion and concern underlining her curiosity.

"... I uh…Don't really want to talk about it..." Sherlock mumbled as he walked back into his flat, closing the door.

.

.

"So, how is your blog going?" A man asked, maintaining a certain type of decorum in his tone.

"If I gave you an answer, would you leave me alone...?" Sherlock retorted with a hint of annoyance in the back of his throat.

A huff puffed out from Mycroft's mouth at the rash response. It’s always been like this; It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does now, but he can’t help it. For most of the Sherlock's life, Mycroft was always there for him: Standing up for him, picking him back up, protecting him, and keeping him out of harm's way. That was how it was until Sherlock began to cave in on himself and began causing all the trouble himself and others.

"You cannot keep yourself coped up in this dinky apartment with a human skull and a violin for the rest of your life. Sherlock, you are thirty-two years old and still chasing criminals for _free_. You need to think about looking for a proper job and get out there in the real world and do something with your worthless life." Mycroft said sternly, shifting his gaze from time to time to prevent any discomfort on his brother’s end.

Sherlock walked into his flat and threw himself onto his armchair, lulling his head back as he groaned at the speech his brother laid on top of him. "Blah... Blah... Blah... Careful Mycroft, you’re starting to sound like mother." Sherlock drawled as he suddenly jumped up from his armchair and made his way over to his messy desk, shuffling some papers around. ‘ _Anything to make him go… Just go away._ ’

Mycroft clicked his tongue and snorted, brushing off the sudden movements his brother made and turned on his heels, making his way to the kitchen. He looked around and cautiously stepped over the piles and piles of trash and paper on the floor, going over to the fridge. Mycroft gripped the handle and pulled the door open, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the putrid stench of blood and death poured out from the fridge. He slammed the door and turned right back around, glaring at his brother.

"For the god's sake.... Is any of this edible in this hellhole?" He asked loudly.

Sherlock shrugged and picked up a homemade music sheet, walking over to his stand and resting it on the music stand he set up against the window. Sherlock made his way to the back of his armchair and pulled out a black case violin case from underneath the chair, carefully taking out the small violin that his brother recently made remarks about just moments ago.

"I dunno... Wouldn’t you like to know?" Sherlock retorted, holding back the vulgar insult he was just about to throw out at his brother.

Mycroft gave his brother a look of sheer disgust and huffed, holding his head high as he turned back around to make his way to the front door of the flat. He pulled his coat off the coat rack and looked at his brother again with a shimmer of concern in his mist blue eyes. “Please do call mummy, she’s constantly worried about you.” He said in a softer tone, sliding his coat on. He bit the inside of his mouth and opened his mouth to say something but was immediately cut off by his younger brother yet again.

"If you’re about to ask about the E.R. trip, yes, it was fine, but the trip itself was a major inconvenience in the progression in my case." Sherlock said, trying to tune his violin to perfection. “I… Did not like the fact that you requested that _woman_ to come talk to me again.” He mumbled softly, ignoring the face his brother was giving him. ‘ _Just leave already…_ ’

" She has a name you know. You do know that the only reason we bring in Molly is that she’s the only therapist that can tolerate you..." Mycroft said, picking up the cane he normally carried. He looked back at Sherlock and frowned. "I brought her in for your own good... She could really help come to terms with your autis-"

Before Mycroft could even finish his sentence, Sherlock began to administer quick glides over the violin’s strings with his bow, causing loud screeches to scream from the violin’s sound chambers. Mycroft wasn’t surprised at this, he knows that every time he tried to finish that word, his brother would constantly cut him off in every second that he gets. He sighed and opened the door, calling out to his brother.

"WELL, I'LL BE OFF THEN! TAKE CARE BROTHER DEAR!"

The ear-piercing screeches halted as soon as Mycroft stepped out of the door, closing it behind himself. Sherlock carefully placed his violin off to the side and clasped his hands together joyfully. Now that Mycroft was gone, he could finally be able to finish his task at hand.

This case that he was doing was something entirely new to Sherlock. A drug that could immediately cut your breathing off and kill you, and the best part was, people were taking it _willingly_. It was the cases like this that kept Sherlock on edge all the time, not in a bad way, but almost in a euphoric sense that he just couldn’t get enough of. Sherlock originally thought this case was going to be wrapped up and finished, but with the intervention of his brother and the constant recommendations from Mrs. Hudson that he needs an escort, he needed to find a way to investigate these cases without having Mycroft hanging over his shoulders like a hawk.

He tapped the desktop softly, thinking about what he should do. He could get a dog, but he’d probably end up accidentally overdosing the dog like the previous time. The same thing applies to the cat. Raising a hang to scratch his head, an idea suddenly popped into his head. He walked over to his desk, sitting down and turning his old laptop on.

‘ _What was it Mrs. Hudson called those people… Uh… Flatmates, right? Yeah… Flatmates…_ ’

"Yeah… A flatmate is just what I need."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Have a wonderful day/night!
> 
> -From, Roxy


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